


Benefits of old laws: Out-Takes

by ulktante



Series: Benefits of Old Laws [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ulktante/pseuds/ulktante
Summary: This is a collection of short scenes from "Benefits of old laws" that did not fit into the main story.No update schedule. No particular order, I publish them as they come to me to be written.If you have an idea of what happened "off-screen" in the main story but you would like to see, leave me a comment. Maybe it will spark my muse!I will update tags and everything else as they become applicable.Notes at beginning of a chapter will tell you where in the main story the scene belongs.





	1. Convincing an Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happens between chapters 13 and 14 of the main story.

Marvolo was walking under the light of moon and stars through the silent rose garden over to the small owlery.

He had a long night before him and letters to send, to be delivered by morning.

But which owl to choose? Benjamin had, of course, offered the service of all owls belonging to House Nott. But would they be able to deliver in time? He should consider if it would be wise to get an owl of his own.

Standing, five letters held in his hand by his side, in the entrance, looking up to the owls already returned from their hunt, Marvolo contemplated Severus’ reports about the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Last he had spoken to the potions master about it, it had been under a fidelius. Consequently, he learned nothing of this place during his foray into the man’s mind.

It was likely that most owls would not be able to reach anyone behind the wards, that were there in addition to the fidelius.

Swearing silently and about to turn around, he spotted a regal looking snowy owl, gliding into the owlery through a window opposite from him. Henry’s owl. A magnificent bird. And the one his son had used to send letters to his friends and godfather in the last few days. Or so he assumed. A bird that had probably been inside these wards, described by Severus as ‘adequate’.

Sent with this owl, the letters would reach the intended recipients by morning.

There was still one problem left. How to go about it to get her do his bidding? He opened his mouth to call out to her and closed it again.

What was the bird’s name?

Sighing he closed his eyes, searching for this seemingly unimportant piece of information.

It was a female owl, of that he was sure. The name started with ‘He’. Helda? No. Hera?

“Hedwig!”

Intelligent amber eyes fixed him, blinking slowly, weighing him. She was holding a dead mouse in her beak.

A little uncomfortable Marvolo held up the letters. “I have a few letters to send. They are for Henry’s friends and his godfather.”

With a last blink in the wizard's direction, the impertinent owl transferred her prey from her beak to her talons and started to devour her meal.

Huffing in frustration, Marvolo paced a few steps back and forth. He was tempted to hex the bird and force it to take the letters. But as he was trying to win her owner over to his side, he knew that to be a stupid move.

So Marvolo had to convince it. Somehow.

Maybe bribery would work?

“When you are back from delivering these letters, I will give you some nice fat rats, or a rabbit if you would prefer.”

He could have sworn the look Hedwig sent him said something along the lines of ‘you are stupid human. I can catch my food on my own.’

“Then maybe some bacon? Roasted chicken?” The look did not change. Bribery was obviously not the answer.

While the red eyed man searched for another way to go about this, a young tawny owl fluttered down to him, landing on a ledge right beside his right hand. Sticking out its leg, it hooted expectantly.

“No,” Marvolo shook his head, “you would probably not get into the wards. I need her to take them.” He stabbed the letters, clutched in his hand, in the white owl's direction.

The blasted owl still ignored him, and he stared at her, himself ignoring the helpful owl fluttering back to the rafters above his head.

“These are invitations for your Master’s friends to meet with him.” Maybe avoiding the boy’s name, Marvolo would not use the name ‘Harry’ without the boy’s permission and the bird might not accept ‘Henry’ to be the name of her master, and telling of the letters’ purpose would sway the bird.

Now finished with her mouse, the owl’s gaze remained fixed on the wizard standing with his gleaming shoes in bird droppings.

Maybe attacking her pride would work?

“If you do not feel up to the task, I will have to find different means to deliver the letters.” He sighed for effect and turned as if to leave.

He allowed himself a small smirk, hearing the rustle of wings and an impatient screech from behind. So he simply completed the turn until he faced the owl again.

From close up the owl of his son looked even more impressive.

“Will you take these letters to Lord Black and the children?” He asked reasonably polite.

She hooted softly, blinking, but did not stick out her leg.

Uncomprehending, Marvolo stared at the owl in front of him.

With each passing moment her stare got more intense, until the wizard remembered a different female starring at him expectantly, waiting. A faint memory fought its way to the forefront of his mind.

‘ _What is the magic word, Tom?’_

Scowling at this unwelcome recollection, Marvolo contemplated if it was worth a try. It should be easy enough.

“Would you _please_ take these letters to Lord Black and Henry’s friends?”

He huffed irritated as the smug looking owl stuck her leg out, waiting for him to tie the letters to it. He shrunk them down, conjured some string and secured the missives to the owl’s leg. She hooted once and took of.

Marvolo walked back through the rose garden, glad that no one had witnessed how an owl had made him say please. Especially Nagini would have teased him endlessly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First published: 19th of January 2016 (over at FFnet)


	2. Reporting back Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the Death Eater meeting of chapter 4

Apparating into the entrance hall of his manor, Lucius released a breath of relief. His measured steps echoed from the high ceiling to the patterned tile floor, as he made his way to the parlour nearest the entrance.

On his way there he removed the hood and mask, dispelling the sticking charms that held his robes closed.

And as he had known, as soon as he stepped into the sparsely lit parlour his lovely wife Narcissa got up from her vigil on the love seat by the fire.

As so often in the past she had waited up for him, clad only in a sleeping gown and her dressing robes, potions prepared on the low table, a book for distraction in her hand.

And following the routine established over a decade ago, she waited, standing by the love seat until her husband had shed the dark, heavy robes and the white, cold mask, before hurrying to his side.

With a reassuring smile, Lucius tried to calm her down. “I have not suffered any punishment tonight, love.”

Despite his obvious lack of injuries, Narcissa first checked him over, using eyes and hands before she cast a general diagnostic charm at him.

At her relieved expression, Lucius just had to let his chuckle be heard.

“I told you I am fine. Our Lord has shown much more restraint in punishments since his return.”

They both knew what was not said. That the Dark Lord appeared to be much saner and collected than he had been before his fall. And the fear that this would only be temporary and that the raving madman was about to reappear again.

Giving in in to Narcissa’s urging to sit down beside her, Lucius made himself comfortable on the love seat right next to the love of his life. How lucky they had been, that their match, arranged by their parents, had come out this good.

“Can you tell me what the future will bring?” Narcissa asked, with her head leaning against his shoulder.

They both felt the need for contact after he had been called. And now, in the privacy of their home, out of the sight of prying eyes, they could give in to the need.

“I do not think that we need to fear all-out war and violence,” Lucius murmured. “Or the return of madness. He looked rather well.”

Turning his head and pressing a kiss onto her hair, he relaxed. Meetings always were tense affairs.

“He is concerned by the dwindling numbers of magical people. He fears we will eradicate ourselves, if we wage another war.”

Narcissa shot her husband a questioning look.

Lucius chuckled again. “He ordered all single men to marry and start families. And...” the blond hesitated.

But he did not need to say more. Understanding dawned in Narcissa’s eyes.

“He wants the families of his people to grow?” Her voice was soft, and smug. A small smile tucking at her lips, a spark in her eyes, she stood up dragging her husband along.

“I would not dare to keep you from following his orders,” she whispered into his ear.

He followed her eagerly out of the room and up the stairs to their rooms. Now that all of his arguments of the years past had been dispelled, he was only too happy to give in to her demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First published: 9th of February 2016 (over at FFnet)
> 
> Thanks to Alxalama as well as Jordre and Jake for beta reading the out-takes!


	3. Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happens shortly before the end of chapter 14 and the beginning of chapter 15

With a steady sound of ‘drip, drip’ drops of water fell down from the branches and leaves of the bushes they were hiding under. Growling in frustration as one of the drops of cold water found its way past her robes and down her neck, Alecto shifted her weight.

They had found the traitor rather fast after being sent off to find him. But this part had been the most exciting so far.

Because they had to stay hidden and unnoticed, she and her brother had foregone more than one opportunity for some fun. While magic made following the traitor easier, she really could use a long hot bath by now. And a change of robes. Freshening and cleaning charms could only do so much.

“I wish I had learned a few more outdoor spells from father.” Amycus murmured next to her, casting another warming charm at his robes.

Their father had earned their money by collecting parts of magical animals for potions. As most harmless animals were raised on farms for this purpose, he only went after the dangerous or untameable ones. And after those that it was illegal to hunt for several reasons, as well.

He had tried to teach his children what he knew of the trade. But they neither of them had shown much interest. And now it was too late, as he had never returned from a hunt for acromantula venom over ten years ago.

The male twin growled in frustration. “Why don’t we just grab him the next time he steps out?” Amycus waved his hand at the small inn sitting at the foot of the hill they were perching on, to emphasize his point.

“Because our Lord sent us to gather information, not catch the traitor.” It was obvious from her expression that she would have preferred to just go down and get Karkaroff out as much as her brother. “Was it not you that told me about the changes?” she asked him, turning to face the other, tucking the hood of her travelling cloak over her red hair to protect herself from the rain that was getting stronger.

“Yes, I did. But that is just what Macnair told me. He didn’t say much. Only grumbled that he does not think he will get to see much action.” While keeping an eye on the inn, so as not to miss the traitor should he leave, they mulled over what this statement could mean.

It had been common knowledge in their circles that Macnair was mostly in because of the opportunity to kill and torture. In fact, they often had wondered how he had managed after the war had been over. Killing dangerous beasts for the Ministry certainly could not be enough to satisfy his urges. But as they had been abroad most of the time – buying rare and or illegal potions ingredients to import, or smuggle, into Britain – they had not followed the activities of their old comrades too closely. Not that many of them would have liked to stay in contact.

Casting a drying charm on one patch of not-too-muddy ground, Alecto settled down to sit rather than crouch.

“What do you think,” her brother asked a long time later, “should we try to get a little closer? Try to listen in?”

She followed his line of sight, spotting the low-hanging roof on one side of the building. The sky was not getting any lighter, and the roof offered much better shelter from the rain than the bushes they were sitting in at the moment. Not having to think long, she nodded, getting her wand from her sleeve, casting a disillusionment charm on herself.

The only good thing she could say about the rain was that the mosquitoes stopped flying around once it started. The insect repelling charm was one she had never mastered, and thus she was covered in itchy spots where they had found their way to her skin.

Avoiding muddy spots on the ground, sticking to the grass so as not to leave any footprints behind, they slowly made their way down to the inn. They finally reached the shelter of the roof after the rain had started pouring down. They only stayed remotely dry courtesy of the water-repelling charm they had cast on themselves.

A rat scurried away from them into a pile of firewood, neatly stacked against the wall below the window.

Creeping closer to this small and dusty window, Amycus cast an eavesdropping spell they both had used countless times during their school days. Immediately they both could hear the conversations, the clattering of cutlery and dishes, and laughter from inside the shelter. Some Scandinavian language was spoken until someone switched to heavily-accented English. “You should stay here. Storm will get nasty.”

The twins tensed as they recognized the voice of the man that answered. “I know what I’m doing. Keep your nose out of other people’s business!” Karkaroff sounded as if he was on edge. Amycus grinned to his sister, who gave him a wolfish grin of her own. Their prey felt the hunters on his heels.

“You do not,”the first speaker said, but obviously was not about to concern himself overly much with a foreigner who was so rude.

“Leave the fool be,” drawled another person.

Alecto shifted, unhappy that they could not see much through the dusty window. She wished to know how many people there were and if they would try to stop Karkaroff from leaving.

“If he wants to fall to his death, you can’t do a thing!”

The twins could hear some shuffling, chairs dragged over the wooden floor, and someone muttering words they did not understand. But judging by the tone they were spoken in, it was nothing favourable.

A short time later the door to the inn opened and Karkaroff stepped out. He turned up the collar of his muggle coat, shouldered his satchel and strode up the path into the mountains. Alecto and Amycus would have shared a questioning glance – what was the traitor up to? – if they hadn't been as good as invisible at the moment. As they did not need to communicate much these days to know what the other was thinking, they started to follow the other wizard up the path. This was the perfect opportunity. If Karkaroff would vanish now, the Muggles would assume that the storm had something to do with it.

They could capture the man and get the traitor before the Dark Lord without causing suspicion. Grins spread over their faces as they walked through the heavy rain, gaining on their prey. It did not take long to get around a curve and out of sight of the inn.

With glee they started with an Expelliarmus and got more creative after that. They had caught a traitor!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First published 17th of July 2016 (over at FFnet)
> 
> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!


	4. Septimus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happens before chapter 29, on the last evening of August

He felt hungry again and wondered if it really had been two weeks already since he had last had the chance to drink his fill. It seemed to be so.

Since he had come to the island with Vespasian back in the day as a soldier, he had rather liked the place and the people. As a third son he had never felt inclined to return home to Italy, and so he had stayed. Then he had run into the vampire who had turned him and had never looked back.

In the last hundreds of years he had travelled quite a lot, but he always returned to his favourite place. And even if he had not been one able to wield magic before, he now preferred to keep close to those calling themselves witches and wizards.

At the moment he walked down a street – dark and in dire need of a good repair and cleaning – called Knockturn Alley on his way to one of the pubs he was sure to find a snack in. Or maybe even a meal. There were always some people around the world could do without, and Septimus preferred those as full meals, not daring enough to chance getting the aurors interested in him. If he kept his killings to those that were harming children, almost no one objected. So this was what he was doing.

He opened the door of the pub know as “The Hag’s Palace” and stepped in. It was a dark and dusty place. Today olibanum was being burned in the small bowl used for the different incenses that masked the smell in this place.

There were only a few people sitting around the room, and if Septimus did not possess a much better sense of sight than any human, he would not have been able to see much of them. There was a werewolf sitting alone at the bar, bent over a dish with mostly raw meat, and a hag behind the bar was cleaning the glasses. As filthy as the rest of the room was, the glasses were always sparkling clean. An odd contrast in Septimus’ eyes, but one he appreciated.

“One glass of blood,” he ordered and sat down as far as he could from the wolf. Not that he had anything against those changing into wolves on the full moon, but they tended to have a rather strong smell on them even outside the nights they transformed, and he had found in the past that he could not stand being near them any length of time.

A pint of blood – cow, by the scent of it – was placed before him, and he paid the sickle right then and there. While animal blood would not sate his thirst, it would take the edge off. Something he found useful, if he did not want to have a body on his hands to get rid of after his meal.

And so he was sitting there, sipping at his drink, listening in to the conversation between a few wizards sitting together at a table in the back of the room, hard to see behind incense smoke and dust in the air.

“I tell you, Dung! Really had a good opportunity at ma hands right there!” an oily-looking wizard boasted, waving his arms around in exuberant gestures.

Another wizard, this one exuding a rather strong aroma of tobacco and some cheap booze, nodded sagely. “Be happy that it didn’t work. I heard what happened. You do not want to mess with that lordling’s father!” Now the one with shabby hair shook his head.

Septimus listened only with half an ear after this. A wizard who had almost kidnapped a young wizard. A “lordling”, so probably the son of a rich family. And by the way the oily one talked, it seemed the attempt had happened not so long ago. All of that matched rather well with what Carrow had told him. It was possible he had found the one that had tried to harm the Heir of Slytherin. He smiled fondly at the memories the name brought forward and sipped from his drink. Once he had had a friendship with a Slytherin. A young man, the youngest of three brothers, he had had a rather daring streak. They had called him the Gryffindor Slytherin.

But that had been in another time. Here and now there was a wizard on whose head there was a price. Gaining favours could be advantageous, especially when the one owing you one was a Lord on the Wizengamot and probably – most likely – the leader of a vast organisation. So he stayed longer than he had planned, ordering two more pints of blood and listening to two inane criminals gossiping about their last jobs and people they both knew.

Finally the oily wizard left and Septimus did not mask the fact that he intended to follow the man as he stood and left as well. The last few hours had made clear as the light of the moon that this man had no qualms against hurting and harming children. So the vampire had no qualms hurting him.

Through the warm night of London, Septimus followed the other for several streets. When he was sure that they were alone, he took a few fast and big leaps and threw the shady wizard into a wall.

“Bad luck, wizard,” Septimus hissed into the whimpering man’s ear, pressing down on him. He grabbed one arm, twisted it back behind the man’s back, and used it as a handle. He would take a small snack and then contact Carrow. He certainly would have a way to get this bag of scum into the right hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 4th of September


	5. Open Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One potions lesson during the summer in August.

Henry Slytherin, the raven-haired boy his Lord had adopted, was standing at the worktable, a look of concentration on his face. He was currently grinding some flamingo egg-shells into fine powder.

Since Severus had started teaching the boy individually, leaving all past animosity for the biological father aside, he had improved by leaps and bounds. Slowly he came to the realization that Lily’s son might have inherited some of her potions talent. The young Potions Master doubted that the talent would have had a chance to develop had the circumstances not changed so drastically.

“Sir, may I ask a question?” the teenager asked, setting the pestle aside, green eyes checking the fineness of the ground egg shells.

“You already have. But you may ask another.” Sarcasm now no longer wielded as a weapon brought an answering smirk with increasing frequency.

It was eerie how much of his mother Severus now could see in Henry. If he had had the time between all his projects, he would have inspected his new discoveries more closely.

“ _He_ claimed a few days ago that the gift of the language of snakes would never skip a generation.”

Severus waited patiently for the child to actually formulate a question, while he prepared everything for the first actual potion they would brew in the tutoring sessions.

“No one who told me about my parents ever mentioned that my mother could talk to snakes…” he trailed off, his eyes leaving the teacher's face, fixing on the ingredients arranged on the table ready to brew, obviously uncomfortable.

Severus took pity on his pupil. “So you wonder if I know if she shared this gift with you?”

Unable to raise his gaze – probably afraid of angering his professor with questions about his friendship with Lily – the heir of Lord Slytherin only nodded.

Severus started to think. Had he ever seen Lily in a situation proving or disproving the theory that she had been a parselmouth as well? After several heartbeats he came to the conclusion that in fact he could neither confirm nor deny the idea. But that would be no comfort for her child.

Who would have thought that Lily Evans had been part of the Slytherin bloodline? What were the chances of her being killed by another member of that family?

“I have never seen your mother interact in any way with a snake of any kind,” Severus started his explanation, casting a spell to get rid of the stains from the more colourful of the ingredients. “I remember pretty well the day your ability was revealed to the whole of Hogwarts.” Severus' smirk at the memory of throwing the ponce Lockhart through the Great Hall was answered by a look of reminiscence and a shy grin from the boy. “How long had you known about your own gift by this time?”

“I only learned of it shortly before my Hogwarts letter arrived.”

“So you were almost eleven at the time?”

The boy nodded, listening, highly focused.

“It was only by accident, then. I do not know if Lily ever came into close enough contact with a snake to speak to it. And even if she knew, she may have had chosen to hide the ability from everyone. With what was brewing back then, and with being a parselmouth being associated solely with danger and darkness…”

With a sad look the teenager nodded slowly. “So you say I probably will never know for sure, sir?”

“It is a distinct possibility, heir Slytherin.” He did not add the platitudes of regret the sentimentality of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors would have demanded, only verifying the boy’s own deduction.

The rest of the lesson was spent in blessed silence and ended with an acceptable attempt at a cure for boils. Potions was a subject best taught to small classes. He kept trying to get this fact into the skulls of those deciding lesson plans and budgets. So far to no avail. But without persistence, nothing would ever be achieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 9th 2016 of September (over at FFnet)


	6. A Hat’s Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During chapter 34, afternoon, Headmaster’s office

The last sorting had been only a few days ago. Or so it felt to the Sorting Hat, resting on one of the overflowing shelves in the Headmaster’s office.

Like other years before, he had now started working on the new version of the sorting song he composed each year. If he was honest, he tended to recycle older versions after two decades. After all, the subject he sang about did not change, ever. Sometimes he felt he needed to emphasise a particular part, like school unity, but most of the time he only needed to update the language he was using.

Most of his amusement the Sorting Hat got from listening to the conversations that were held in the circular office. He had heard quite a few reports from Severus Snape – he remembered the anxious eleven-year-old boy, hoping against hope that he would be placed with his friend – the man that had developed a special brand of bravery. If he had had someone to bet with, he would have liked to place a wager that the Potions Master had changed sides again.

But oddly enough, no one ever asked his opinion outside of the placement of the new students into the four houses. Even though he was sitting here, listening in on discussions between the Headmaster and all his guests, and had sat on the head of every single student to pass through these halls. One would think someone would realize what a wealth of knowledge he had amassed over the hundreds of years he had existed.

The portraits of the old Headmasters and Headmistresses were talking animatedly with one another. One of them had been out on a stroll through the school, walking from picture to picture, and when he had come back he had quite the story to tell them. It was Friday but all corridors were empty. The staff in the staff room and all the students in the common rooms. They all were curious why that was.

Feigning disinterest – like he did so often – the hat sat in his place next to one big clear crystal, waiting for Albus to come back here. In time he would learn what this commotion was about, he was sure of it.

 

It took almost until lunch time for any human to make an appearance. Their arrival was heralded by the rumbling of the gargoyle moving out of the way and the stairs moving several persons up to the office.

The portraits ceased their conversation, many falling into a pretend sleep – like they were prone to do – and the Sorting Hat shuffled a little on the shelf to get a better vantage point onto the desk and the visitors' chairs. Maybe he would get to know what all the fuss was about earlier than he had thought.

The door opened and the Headmaster in his colourful robes stepped through, followed by a shorter wizard in what could only be called respectable robes.

“Come in, come in, Mr. Everard. Take a seat. May I offer you a lemon drop?” Albus ushered the other wizard in, talking in a voice that all who did not know him for so many years as the Hat did would think was cheerful. A few of the creases higher up from the brim moved. Why was the Headmaster nervous?

“Mr. Everard? From the Everards of Plymouth?” One of the portraits pretending to sleep sat forward in the chair he had been painted in, obviously interested in the man walking over to one of the comfortable visitors' chairs.

The younger – and alive – Mr. Everard turned so he could look up to the portrait and gave a deep bow to his ancestor. “Yes, sir. If I’m not mistaken, you are my great-great-grandfather.”

A smile graced the painted face. “It is nice to make your acquaintance. Don’t let me interfere with your business.”

Two more bows were traded, and then the Headmaster and his guest took seats at the desk.

“I’m not sure what you really want to do here, Johnson. I can’t see how this most obscure bylaw can possibly be applied to the situation we have here…” Before the Headmaster could develop any momentum he was interrupted.

“It is my duty as a member of the board to bring the matter before the Sorting Hat and deliver the hat’s assessment to the student, and the family, in question. So if you would please bring the Sorting Hat here?”

Now the Hat was intrigued. There were only a handful of bylaws that would require his involvement. And he was quite certain that most of them had been forgotten. So for which one would his assistance be required?

The Headmaster got his wand out of his robe while the Hat shuffled to the edge of the board he was sitting on. Being summoned was not really fun, so being nearer his destination was a good idea.

Soaring through the air, the Sorting Hat landed in the old wrinkled hand of the Headmaster and was set down gently on the wooden surface of the desk, facing in the direction of Mr. Johnson Everard.

With a little bow from the neck – bowing was never easy sitting down – the wizard addressed the Sorting Hat with the proper respect. “I came here to bring forward the case of the student Henry James Slytherin to get your assessment whether a re-evaluation of his placement is in the realm of possibilities.”

Slowly wiggling his tip in thought, the Hat finally had to ask. “I do not remember sorting a student by the name of Henry James Slytherin in the last decade. In fact, I’m reasonably sure that it has been over a hundred years since I last sorted any student by the name of Slytherin.”

It was not phrased as a question but it seemed to be clear enough for the man posing the request in the first place. “As the student was adopted this summer and carried another name when he entered the school, I would not expect you to remember him by this name.”

“Very well. Please tell me in what way the student was affected that you consider a re-evaluation of his placement might prove beneficial.” It was not often that someone would think of asking for this, but most interesting was the reaction of the Headmaster to this request. Why was he so nervous about this? One single student and his placement was more or less insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

With a clear and calm demeanour Mr. Johnson started to lay out the facts. “The student Harry James Potter was entered into the Tournament taking place last year against his will. He was forced to compete against three others. The papers wrote slanderous articles, and the school’s population was picking on him. At the end of the Tournament he was kidnapped by portkey from school grounds. A Hufflepuff student by the name of Cedric Diggory was kidnapped with him and killed before his very eyes. He was forced to participate in a dark ritual, bringing back the wizard known to many as You-Know-How, managed to duel a grown wizard to a kind of standstill, and to escape. The Ministry did not believe his tale and the slander continued. Since then he has been adopted by the newly recognized Tom Marvolo Riddle – now Lord Slytherin – and has learned that he is now the heir to two powerful and important families.” The man took a deep breath before he continued. “Since the start of term there have been many pranks, one instance of poisoning, sending Mr. Slytherin to the infirmary for one night, and a murder attempt only yesterday evening. The fact he searched for sanctuary in the Slytherin common room, suggests that he does not feel safe in his own house anymore.”

The Headmaster took the third lemon drop since he had entered the office with its small silver instruments, happily puffing their smoke out in tiny clouds, but the Hat concentrated on the man before him.

It was quite the list of events that was presented for him here. So Tom Riddle, who had become Voldemort and killed the Potters only to be bested by their infant son, now was back and had adopted the child, claiming the title in the process.

Of course he had known that the Potter child was descended from the Slytherin family. Not only his natural cunning and the fact he was a parselmouth had been factors leading him to consider placing him in Slytherin House.

Were these events life-changing enough to make the child eligible for a re-placement? The Sorting Hat hummed to himself. Considering that the child had been between two Houses and only his fervent wish not to be a Slytherin had tipped the scales, these events could have tipped the scales in favour of not being a Gryffindor. For one, learning that he was Heir and what that entailed might further a more political mind.

They certainly were profound enough to counter the effects of living as a Gryffindor for a little over four years. If the child really wanted to change his House, his narrow placement in Gryffindor and the events of the past year were enough to open the possibility to him.

“If Mr. Slytherin wants to ask me for a re-evaluation, he may do so.” The Sorting Hat spoke in a grave voice, sinking back into contemplation.

Why did Albus Dumbledore fear the possibility of the former Harry Potter being placed in another House than Gryffindor? Would the boy ask for a re-sorting? Why had Tom Riddle decided to claim the Slytherin name, now of all possible times?

While the Sorting Hat was placed back on his shelf next to the crystal and the visitor left, the Hat came to the conclusion that this visit had brought more questions than answers. At least he now knew that an auror investigation was the cause for the empty halls earlier in the day.

Now he had a song to compose. If the boy would come to place the Sorting Hat on his head once again, only time would tell. But he was nothing if not patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 21st of October 2016 (over on FFnet)


	7. Keeping Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During chapter 34, morning, No. 12 Grimmauld Place

Remus picked up the crumpled parchment his friend had dropped before he had vanished through the Floo to the House Harry called home now.

Remus still was unsure what he should think about Lord Slytherin and his actions since he had reclaimed his life in the middle of summer. The story that was told all around their world seemed as likely as any. But it did not match with Albus’ reaction to the whole affair.

His own interactions with the man, and his obvious agenda to help werewolves – at least on the surface – made the sandy-haired man inclined to give the man the benefit of the doubt. That the last full moon night – not a full week ago – went off without a hitch, the Wolfsbane potion, and the place to run, provided by Lord Slytherin, was another positive point.

With a few steps Remus had reached the table and smoothed out the parchment on the wooden surface. His eyes raced over the short letter, instantly recognizing Harry’s handwriting. He had to start over three times before he could wrap his head around what he had just read.

Remus had known that there had been a little bit of pranking on Harry. With one of the history essay copies he had sent, there had also been a short letter asking for advice on how best to de-escalate a situation involving pranking. Harry had wanted to know how he could discourage someone from pranking him without resorting to violence.

But this was a whole different level.

Not able to sit still, Remus almost jumped up from the chair he was sitting on and started pacing in the kitchen.

A murder attempt.

At least three other students had tried to murder his best friend’s son. Well, they had cast dangerous spells at Harry while he had been flying. Whether they really had planned to kill him was not sure.

Now he understood why Sirius had left in a hurry. And why he had gone to Griffin House. Remus himself felt like confronting Lord Slytherin about it. The man was Harry’s guardian and had the political influence to make sure whoever was responsible would be found and punished.

His rising fury was doused with ice-cold water the moment he realized why he thought someone had to make sure the event would not be swept under the carpet.

Their fifth year. The _**prank**_ Sirius had played on Severus, and only James' quick thinking had prevented disaster. As far as Remus remembered, there never was an appropriate punishment for Sirius. The son of an influential family getting away with setting up his friend to maybe murder the son of a family without any influence to speak of.

He had not realized how deeply that incident had damaged the trust he had had in Sirius and the Headmaster. True, he had trusted them to keep his secrets even more after that. But he did not trust Albus to defend the law, when he thought bending it was necessary for the wellbeing of all, he would do it. And he had not trusted Sirius after that as much as he had done before. He was reasonably sure that this _**prank**_ had been the reason why he had been able to believe that Sirius had betrayed Lily and James.

Moving the chair back to the table, Remus sat down heavily. What should he do now? Follow after Sirius? That probably would not be the best move. While he had been at Griffin House many times as Harry’s tutor in history, now that his student was not there, it would be not proper for him to go there uninvited.

Oh sure, he felt the need to track down the ones attacking his cub, making sure they never would repeat this error. But at the same time he accepted that both Sirius and Lord Slytherin had more tools in their arsenal, a better chance to get the job done.

To burn off some of his nervous energy, Remus decided to go out and take a really long walk around the neighborhood. Maybe he should apparate to a nearby wood and run a little. That always had a calming effect on him – more than once he had wondered if that had to do with his being a werewolf – and he really needed to calm down.

Decision made, Remus got up, collected his cloak from the cupboard next to the entrance hall, and went out to find some calm. He would not stay away long, so he would be in the house once Sirius returned. He planned on getting all the details from his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 22nd of October 2016 (over at FFnet)


	8. The Locket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During chapter 34, evening, Grimmauld Place

The elf was puttering around in its… room? ... there was probably no better term, and it would do. Marvolo got up to make a show of sweeping the room with his magic, to detect what he was searching for here, even if he already had located the locket.

Marvolo let himself drift over to the small door to a cupboard, hiding a boiler by the look of it, finally turning to face the pile of rags and the elf. “It feels like what I seek is in there.”

All three wizards could clearly hear the elf muttering to himself. “What is the foreign wizard doing here? Kreacher wants the wizard gone, wants all of them gone.” Then the being, looking as if he had thrown on a skin at least one size too big – there were that many wrinkles – turned and looked up with a tilted head and narrowed eyes.

Marvolo saw the moment the elf made the connection in his mind. Recognized the wizard who had taken him into a cave, made him drink a horrible potion, leaving him there to die. The wizard who was the reason the master he had served so faithfully had found his death in the same cave. He saw the hatred in those strange eyes. And was sure that if looks could kill, he would be in need of a new body, again.

“I’m looking for a dark artefact I left behind many years ago,” Marvolo said, selecting his words with care – very aware of the others listening – directly addressing the elf. “It is dangerous and can’t be left as it is.”

Suspicious eyes narrowed as the elf tipped its head to the side and, muttering as if the others weren’t there at all, the old elf made its displeasure known. “Master said Kreacher has to destroy it. Make sure it stops existing. Can’t go against sweet Master Regulus’ orders. Can’t do what Kreacher should.”

The small thing sounded frustrated and angry at itself. To Marvolo it sounded as if Regulus had ordered his elf to take the locket and destroy it, leaving him behind in the cave. A positively Gryffindor plan, or in other words, a totally harebrained scheme.

“The object is really hard to destroy. I’m sure you have tried all you could think of. You’re a dedicated elf, an honourable, reliable servant for your family. I know that there are not more than a handful of methods to destroy it.” He was still trying to speak in a way that would make it possible to get the elf to give up the locket and his Master’s last command, and at the same time didn’t alert the other two wizards as to the nature of the object. It was unlikely that Regulus had told his elf what exactly it was that it had to destroy.

Hopefully.

“Bad wizard knows how to destroy it? Can’t trust. Locket is evil, can’t keep existing. Wizard evil too!” Marvolo wondered how being in the possession of a horcrux had affected the little being. Maybe his fixation on this task, destroying a horcrux without the means to do it, was to blame for the state of the old house. But how could he convince the elf that it was a good idea to give the locket to the wizard he thought evil?

Acutely aware of the two others sitting on the edge of their chairs behind him, Marvolo quickly thought about different ways to go about this before he committed to one course of action.

“Your Master was right. Creating that object was wrong. It needs to be neutralized. Things have changed. I have changed. I’m here to retrieve the object and take it apart so it will no longer be a danger.” The elf looked sceptical, its head tilted back and to the side, scrutinising the wizard standing before him with surprisingly intelligent eyes. Or maybe not so surprising. He should stop underestimating others because he thought them less intelligent or powerful than himself. He hadn’t included wards against elves in his protections around the horcrux, and it now was abundantly clear that he had needed such wards.

A few tense moments the wizard and elf looked at each other. Then the elf turned to shuffle over to the open door, rummaged in the rags piled on the floor, knocking over some things by the sound of it, before he came shuffling back, a small necklace clutched to his chest in his spindly fingers. “Wizard will make locket not evil again?” Marvolo nodded. “Will make evil go away?” Marvolo nodded again.

When the elf held the locket out on the palms of his long, slim hands, Marvolo cast a wandless and silent levitation charm, got a silken cloth out of his pocket, and wrapped the locket of Slytherin in it. If he had been able to, he would have departed as soon as the small packet was safely stowed away. But there were protocols to follow, niceties to observe, between two Lords of the Wizengamot. Sometimes he looked back with fondness to the days he just could act as he wanted, breaking every rule. Some things had been so much easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 18nd of July 2017


	9. In High Demand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before chapter 52, Deep within Gringotts Bank, London

The tension was high in the halls underneath London. Goblins were scurrying back and forth, rumours were circulating. There had been wars over the potion used to show the ancestry of a single witch or wizard back to the days of the beginning. Wars to make sure that they wouldn’t brew the potion on their own. It had been hard, but it had been worth it, as now the wizards didn’t know how any longer, and didn’t kill to get the ingredients they would need to brew it.

But as there had been changes recently, troubling changes, there now was a group of goblins seated in a circular meeting hall, around an oval table, to discuss how they could react and make sure that they wouldn’t need to fight a war again.

“So tell me how this all started,” an old, almost wizened-looking goblin in chain mail and silk sitting at the head of the table demanded from the group sitting at the longer sides of the oval.

“In summer the newly proclaimed Lord Slytherin came by, letting his newly adopted son take the test. The test revealed that the witch known as Lily Potter was a descendant from a Slytherin Squib line.” The goblin answering and explaining was leaning forward over the table, so he had a better view of the one presiding over the meeting. “The next asking for an ancestry test was a young witch by the name of Hermione Granger. This was a couple of days later. She learned that she is a descendant of the Lestrange Family. She has been declared heiress since then.”

Another goblin, on the left hand side of the table, leaned forward to chime in. “After that the demand for ancestry tests suddenly spiked. Lord Slytherin tried to get permission to purchase already-treated parchment. We declined. Then he asked for testing of children at the bank. He indicated that there would be many tests to be conducted, and that he was willing to pay almost any price to get it done.”

A hairy brow twitched in interest. “What have you done to make sure the demand doesn’t rise over our ability to provide?” The old goblin listened with great attention. he felt that he needed to know every little detail, to prevent disaster from striking.

“We thought it likely that the wizards have learned again about the cleansing of their magic through Muggles. Are now trying to get children back to their original families. So we declared that the child to be tested needed a guardian present. They managed to get around that by creating an institution to take over guardianship. Since then we have limited the number of tests to be conducted to four per month. Forty-eight tests a year are possible without a struggle.”

For several minutes the room was silent, a few of the younger goblins, sitting at the end of the table, farthest from the old goblin, started to fidget, uneasy with the rising tension.

“Are you sure that they have regained the knowledge of how magic in humans is inherited? Or are you speculating?” Piercing small eyes idly wandered between those goblins responsible for the daily business in London.

“Why is it important? We just raise the prices until the demand goes down to a number that works out,” one of the young goblins declared with a dismissive gesture of his hand. It was clear the young goblin didn’t put much stock in wizards and their affairs beyond the fact that they were a source of income and wealth.

“ _Why is it important_?” One seated in the middle of the table asked with scorn on her face. “We need to know why they need more tests all of a sudden. Because if they should get desperate enough, or impatient enough, they will start to search for a way to get the information they desire. They will cast the treaty to the wind, be willing to risk a war again. And we can’t have that.”

The young male huffed in frustration. He was all too willing to dismiss the claims of his elders that humans of any kind could become dangerous to them.

“You think they are dumb? Unable to find out how to brew the potion? What they will need for it? They managed to create it once. They know that something from us is needed for success. If they set their mind to it, they will regain the knowledge. And our people will be in danger again.” A grim look around the table had the others bow their heads in submission. No one would dare contradict the eldest goblin living today. “We should offer higher compensation to pregnant females to give over the placenta after they have given birth. We should increase our potion stores. Add these additional expenses onto the price for the test. Don’t raise the number of tests available too fast, but keep close watch. We can’t allow the wizards to come even close to considering breaking our agreement.” Once again the piercing gaze out of half-blind blue eyes swept over those assembled in the hall decorated with weapons of the greatest craftsmanship between the flickering torches providing light.

While the younger goblins started to leave, to implement the changes decided upon, the eldest remained, deep in thought. Maybe it would be wise to implement some sort of ranking system for the importance of reasons to need an ancestry test. Or to provide different pools of available slots for tests, so that whatever purpose a human might have for asking, getting their needs met wouldn’t be perceived as unattainable. If they were careful and made wise decisions, the Goblin Nation might possibly even profit from the new developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 31st of July 2017
> 
> AN: I had this explanation on how the ancestry test the goblins provide was working in my head for quite some time. And as I feel it never will come up in the main story, but I wanted to explain anyway: here you have an out-take.


	10. The Graveyard - or - The Lost Prolouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is my version of the graveyard scene as it fits into my story and version of events. It is placed before the start of the main story and was inspired by a question from Theisaryz-Eufuelle  
> I purposefully didn’t have the book version of events at hand when writing this, so there might be some things off. Just count them as changes made that start the deviation from canon ;)  
> I wish Happy Christmas to all that are celebrating! And to all of you a Happy New Year as well ;)

Voldemort was impatient. Had been for months now, but getting the brat out from under the protections placed by Dumbledore wasn’t at all easy. At least he knew he had reliable eyes inside of Hogwarts for a while. Enduring the bumbling and often times incompetent care of Wormtail was even harder than waiting. Although with the people he had had available, taking the bumbling fool to care for Lord Voldemort had been the wise choice. It also had been a nuisance.

But now the evening of his success was finally here. Today he would regain a proper body once more and would be able to once again strive for his goal. Would hold his wand again after all that time.

Bundled up inside the robes, Voldemort didn’t see much of what was happening around him the moment the portkey – manipulated and placed by his faithful Bartemius – deposited the one reaching it first in the middle of the graveyard. But he could see that there was more than one boy stumbling around, trying to orient themselves. “Kill the spare!” Voldemort ordered his servant who had the audacity to actually use his Master’s wand to cast the killing curse. But in the end it wasn’t that important now. Wormtail would pay for that mistake later.

After that the ritual went smoothly. Wormtail gathered Voldemort up from the ground – reverently, as was proper – to lower the much too small and frail body into the cauldron. Voldemort welcomed the encompassing warmth. He had been almost constantly cold since he had taken possession of this temporary body some months ago. Knowing that these were the last moments he would be at the mercy of a lesser being felt wonderful.

Then with the snivelling, squeaky voice of Wormtail calling out “Bones of the father, unknowingly given, you will revive your son!” particles were added to the potion and power started to fill the weak muscles of the homunculus' body.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly offered, you will restore your master!” The splash of something heavy added more power coursing through the potion and Voldemort’s temporary body. Distantly he wished that Wormtail wouldn’t be snivelling and crying the whole time. It did tarnish this glorious event, if even only a little.

The next line of the spoken part of the ritual Voldemort had invented went unheard by the small form reveling in the power moving through the cauldron but he provided it in his thoughts all the same. _Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe_. The blood was added and the process started.

Pain. Overwhelming pain. World-consuming pain. Soul-crushing pain. There was no room for anything else but **The Pain**. If he had had a voice he would have screamed, but while the body was formed there was no way to make his anguish heard.

Then the pain was gone. No, not completely gone, but faded to a dull throb in all the muscles, bones... all of his body. The body was bigger than the homunculus he had inhabited, but that was all Voldemort could say at the moment.

He was stunned. A little discomfort was what he had expected. But what had actually happened left him shaking in his hunched position.

With the lessening of the pain came terrible confusion. Had Wormtail made too many errors? Had the snivelling fool ruined the ritual? The fact that his body was much bigger now, and that the fluid in the cauldron no longer covered him indicated that all had gone reasonably well. But something had changed the ritual, or at least it felt as if something had happened that Voldemort hadn’t anticipated.

Shivering, he shoved his worries over what might have happened aside. Now wasn’t the time to ponder what exactly had happened. Voldemort knew what a type character Wormtail had, and he knew his own position. Naked, wandless, weakened from pain. If he showed any of his weakness and confusion to his cowering servant at this time, there was the possibility that the rat would kill him and run back to the Aurors in the hopes of getting out of the mess he had gotten himself into.

Voldemort had to project strength at all costs until he had Bartemius back at his side, or at least his wand back in his hand. Everything else would have to wait.

So with his mind concentrated on the task of masking the shaking in his cold limbs, Voldemort stood in the cauldron, examining his new body. The height was alright – it felt like he was again as tall as he had been in the past – but when he saw his own hands and the glittering pattern of scales, he had to repress a hiss of shock, barely managing it. What had the incompetent fool **done**? How Voldemort wished that he could have trusted Severus. The Potions Master wouldn’t have ruined the potion to create… this!

“My robe!” Even his voice didn’t sound like his own, there was too much hissing in it, making him sound like he was almost speaking parseltongue when he wasn’t. Wormtail was going to suffer for this! With careful movements Voldemort stepped out of the caldroun.

Wormtail took longer than he should to hand his Lord the robe that had been waiting, and when he finally managed to hand over the robe, Voldemort was happy to cover his body quickly. Some parts of his upbringing were harder to get rid of than others.

Then he accepted his wand back – not paying any attention to Wormtail crumbling on the ground – and carefully turned it over in his hands. It seemed his wand hadn’t taken any damage during the time it had been separated from him. It had been quick thinking from Wormtail to take the wand from the scene of Voldemort’s failure that night. Until he had learned it was in the animagus’ possession, he had always tried not to think too much on what might have happened to it. It had been a possibility that it had been destroyed the instant his body had been destroyed, or broken later by someone from the Ministry, or stolen and kept as a trophy somewhere, or… He wrenched his thoughts away from useless speculation. He still wasn’t out of trouble quite yet. No time to waste on thinking about possibilities and risks. He needed to follow the plan and ban all other things from his mind for now.

“Give me your arm, Wormtail,” he demanded, again hiding his discomfort at the hissing voice coming from his mouth. “The other one!” Voldemort sneered. That rat really was pathetic. But at the moment, even with one hand missing, Voldemort wasn’t sure he would be able to defend himself, and that uncertainty was really frightening.

With a pulse of magic – what a relief that this was still working – Voldemort called all his Death Eaters to him. The Mark that had been dark again now flared hot red, before returning to its normal dark black appearance on Wormtail's forearm.

“And now we have to wait.” He had planned to taunt Potter at this point, had spent hours imagining this exact moment, telling Potter of his brilliant plan to gain immortality, how he had managed to get his hands on Potter to make him an unwilling participant in this ritual. But now with the moment actually here, he didn’t feel inclined to actually do it. So he instead stayed silent, subtly pacing near the fire, to loosen his cramped muscles and warm himself by the fire. It wasn’t a cold night, but despite that he felt cold. What had gone wrong?

But there was no time for Voldemort to ponder his state and what have might influenced the ritual as the first sound of apparation reached his ear. Bartemius hopefully was now on his way out of Hogwarts towards one of the safe houses that hadn’t been found after that disastrous night. It had been rather vexing, the way the young wizard had insisted he should stay at the school and watch how Dumbledore and his fools would react the moment they realized that Harry Potter had died. But Voldemort had insisted that Bartemius leave the castle the moment he felt the Mark burn. He wouldn’t lose such a loyal and useful servant just to sate his curiosity. Not when he couldn’t be sure how many would answer his call.

But it seemed there were quite a few still loyal, or at least afraid enough, to come to his side when he called. One after the other dropped to the ground, crawled over to him, kissed the hem of his robe in proper greeting, before they retreated again to stand in the circle around him, the now-empty cauldron, the whimpering Wormtail, and Harry Potter, still bound to the headstone, shaking and pale.

After the sounds of apparation had stopped, the number as big as it was going to get, Voldemort prepared to give Wormtail his promised gift and payment for his services these past few months. “You came back, not because you are loyal, but because you are weak, searching for protection. I gave you a task to earn your place among mine again. And now you will get what I promised you. Lord Voldemort always keeps his promises.” And he did. Some promises others would call threats, but he always kept his word. So with his own wand in hand, Voldemort concentrated as fiercely as he was able to cast the spell he needed to keep Wormtail from bleeding out. A silver form coalesced in the air, creating the likeness of a hand, which then was directed to attach to Wormtail’s bleeding arm.

After this was finished, Voldemort turned his attention to the circle of people around him. There were spots empty he had known would stay empty. Those that had died, those that had ended up in Azkaban. Severus was missing. By all accounts Wormtail had been able to provide him with, the man was a traitor, or a very good actor looking out for himself. Voldemort wasn’t really that sure at the moment. The speech he had prepared for this moment came flawlessly to his lips. If the hissing quality to his voice was an asset or a hindrance, Voldemort wasn’t so sure. The shudders and reactions – one was even unrefined enough to throw himself to the ground, begging – certainly were satisfying. If there weren’t the dull throb in his head, and the soreness of his muscles, it would have been magnificent.

Their reaction to the presence of Harry Potter was as expected. He had planned to include an explanation of his intricate scheming in his speech, but if he wanted to get rid of the troublesome child easily, he needed to cut this short. So after he had completed the circle – making promises to some and threats to others, comments on their lack of action – and cut off Lucius' attempt to ask for an explanation of how this was at all possible, he sauntered over to Potter. He had planned to show that he was able to touch the boy, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore. What if this strange weakness that had cost him the help of Quirrell had carried over to this new body? His current state wasn’t one he would call strong, he certainly wasn’t willing to risk everything for just touching the boy.

“Old magic was able to shield this child. But now, now he will finally end by my wand, here in front of you all.” Clearly the boy was already weakened by the challenges of the maze, the portkey travel had seemingly not agreed with him either, and he still was losing blood through the cut Wormtail had made. All that was no reason not to weaken him further.

“Crucio!”

The boy screamed a blood curdling scream, muffled by the rag Wormtail had shoved in the boy’s mouth. It felt good to see another in pain, helped Voldemort to ignore his own pain. The fact that magic still seemed to come easily was a relief. For a short moment he had feared… but now wasn’t the time. All around him the Death Eaters were laughing. Voldemort still needed to establish his dominance. No time to ponder his pains, his confusion, or that unprecedented doubt making an appearance again and again.

A wave with his hand had Wormtail scuttling towards the boy, cutting the ropes, removing the gag, handing the brat’s wand back. Now was the time to kill the boy, make sure he wasn’t a threat, and remove all doubts from his followers’ minds.

“Have you learned to duel?” He needed to appear in control of the situation, being strong, when all he really wanted to do was curl up with his snake, a pot of tea, and a blanket in front of a fire. He was so damn cold.

Just as expected the boy didn’t answer, but struggled to stand straight, his wand held defiantly out before him. It looked like he was favouring one leg, and still here he stood, preparing to fight for his life. So much more courage and backbone than any of the adults standing around them in a circle, now closing in to make escape almost impossible.

“We bow to each other,” Voldemort almost hissed again. This voice was unpleasant, he would need to find a way to rectify that, and maybe one to duplicate it. In the right circumstances it would be an excellent tool. He gave a short, curt nod with his head, not really a bow, but why should he bow? “Come now, Harry. You should follow proper procedure! It’s only polite! Bow to Death!” Again the Death Eaters laughed.

The boy didn’t bow, the fire of defiance burning brighter in those green eyes. While admirable, it wouldn’t do, so with a flick of his wand, Voldemort made the boy bow by simply forcing his body to move as he wanted by affecting the air around the boy.

“And now face me, brave and proud, just as your father, moments before his Death.” The last word again ended in a hiss, and just because he could, and because his people would expect some grandstanding and playing – like a cat with a mouse – the first spell Voldemort cast at the unbound child was a Crucio.

After the spell was lifted the last Potter staggered to his feet, colliding with the wall of dark-robes figures surrounding them, being pushed back to where he had started. Impressive. Most people would stay down much longer after one of his crucios. Maybe they had become weaker?

Maybe a little more taunting would be enough to meet expectations before he could kill the child, and then find rest and some potions against his pain. “That hurt, didn’t it Harry? Do you want me to do that again?” He made his tone mocking, trying to stand at ease, smiling a predatory smile. Why couldn’t this be already over?

But the boy said nothing, his eyes frantically searching for any openings he could use to escape. That wouldn’t do. “I asked if you want me to do that again! Answer me!” He cast an Imperio, instructing the mind he came in contact with to answer with a no, or even some begging. Begging would be nice. But the spell didn’t feel all that strong. Was that because he wasn’t in his best form at the moment? Or because the boy’s mind was strong enough to actively fight him? Bartemius had reported that the Potter boy had shown promise in that regard.

“ **I WILL NOT!** ” The shout startled Voldemort, and brought hisses and incredulous shouts from the Death Eaters around them.

Then the duel started in earnest. The boy started to dodge Voldemort’s curses, and he quickly moved from crucio to the death curse. He couldn’t let the boy get away. And it couldn’t look like he had lost control of the situation. So he laughed like a maniac, like someone having fun chasing their prey until it keeled over from exhaustion. Hopefully it would be enough to fool the people looking on.

Suddenly the boy popped up from behind one of the headstones and they both cast a spell almost at the same time. Voldemort cast the killing curse, and judging by the light of the spell flying towards him, Potter had cast an Expelliarmus. How droll.

But then something unexpected happened. The spells collided in the air, and suddenly a golden beam connected their wands. Horror was the primary emotion Voldemort felt as they both were lifted into the air, moved and set down again a little away from the place where the ritual giving him back a body had taken place.

What the hell was this?

Everything that happened after that went by in a blur. And it ended with the boy gone, Voldemort in a fury bad enough that he cursed many of his Death Eaters with the Cruciatus, before he sent them away. Now wasn’t the right moment for all of Wizarding Britain to learn of his return. Mostly operating on automatic, Voldemort instructed his people to keep a low profile. “Lucius, you will have the honour of providing me with shelter for the time being. Leave to prepare rooms for me, and to inform your wife.” He was so very tired.

“I’m honoured, my Lord,” was Lucius' reply, delivered with a deep bow before he left via apparation.

Wormtail was instructed to clean up the place, so the Aurors most likely to come to the place soon wouldn’t find anything worthwhile, and after that was taken care of, Voldemort apparate himself and his familiar Nagini to the comforts of Malfoy Manor. Something to eat, a warm bath, and a bed sounded like a pretty good plan at this point.

This boy had more luck than anyone had any right to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 24th of December 2017
> 
> I cut out most of the Priori Incantatem Scene… but I guess that should work out well enough. What do you think of my adaption of this? Makes sense? Still missing important information?  
> I had fun writing this and hope other questions will inspire my muse to offer more little interesting tidbits ;)


	11. All In A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On chapter 84, fortheloveofimaginaryworlds asked about the name changes that happened, or didn’t happen, in the story. I thought a bit about where it might fit in the story, but I noticed it really is already too late to fit it in. So I decided to add a little bit here to explain what is going on there.
> 
> This part happens soon after Severus Snape has taken on the Prince Lordship officially in chapter 61.

As was routine by now, and no longer laden with anxiety and dread, Harry walked down to the Potions Master’s office for his lessons in Occlumency. Since the man had taken up his seat on the Wizengamot and Harry had read the article in the Prophet proclaiming him Lord Prince, a question had been circling in his head. Why was the man still Professor Snape and not Professor Prince? In the end, Marvolo’s last name had changed from Riddle to Slytherin the moment he had claimed the Slytherin Lordship.

Knocking on the office door Harry pondered the possibility of simply asking the Professor for answers. Since all the changes that had happened during the summer the Professor had been a lot more reasonable about questions and answering them. And Mrs. Goyle had encouraged Harry to actually ask the questions that came to his mind instead of either dismissing them or going off on his own to get answers by himself.

The door opened – as usual by magic and not because Snape had opened it by hand – and Harry was called in.

“Professor,” Harry greeted, giving a small nod which, as he had learned during the summer, conveyed his respect for the teacher standing next to his desk, setting down a cup of what probably had been coffee.

“Mr. Slytherin. I hope you have managed to keep doing your meditation exercises.” The tone of the Professor’s voice was as dry and scathing as it usually was. But Harry had found that he didn’t mind that much anymore.

“I have, sir,” Harry simply answered, trying to concentrate even as the question lingered in the back of his mind. Should he ask?

“Good,” Snape said in his usual severe tone, waving at the two chairs set up in their usual place, facing each other. They had moved on to the stage where Harry had to detect if Professor Snape did enter his mind or not. The Professor only ever moved to the surface and waited there, casting the spell needed silently. It was a frustrating task.

They sat down and started with their usual routine, but Harry was unusually distracted. Something that Professor Snape did notice rather quickly.

“Mr. Slytherin, you seem preoccupied. Do we need to postpone this meeting?” There was a hint of a sneer on the Professor’s face, but Harry no longer felt the need to defend himself against the little barbs. Especially when they were accurate, which they had been every time since he had been adopted by Marvolo.

“Sorry, sir. It’s true, I am distracted.” Harry took a deep breath. “There is a question I don’t know the answer to, and I think you’re the only one who might be able to explain it to me.” Honesty mixed with a little flattery worked surprisingly well on a lot of people.

Snape leaned back, slinging one leg over the other knee. He seemed intrigued. “And what question might that be, Mr. Slytherin? Surely nothing related to Potions? Such a question could be asked during class just as easily.” A brow winged up. “Ask away, Mr. Slytherin.”

Working hard not to fiddle with his sleeves, Harry took a deep breath and quickly gathered his thoughts.

“I’m confused how names change. You see, when I was adopted, my name on my birth certificate changed. First to Potter-Riddle, then, as father claimed the title of Lord Slytherin, to Slytherin-Potter. All the Lords and Ladies I’ve met and heard about only have one Surname. But you’re now Lord Prince, and at the same time Professor Snape. I simply don’t know why that is. What the rules are. And as you’re the one exception to all that I have learned so far about family names, and how they are passed down… Can you explain, sir?” That had been rather long, making Harry uncomfortable. While he waited for Professor Snape to decide if he wanted to explain, Harry moved on the hard chair in an attempt to find a better position.

Folding his long hands in his lap, Professor Snape started to talk in his usual lecture voice. “As in many things connected to magic, intend is most likely the reason for the discrepancies you have noticed, Mr. Slytherin.” For a moment there was silence, leaving time for Harry to ponder how intent might influence the name of a person in situations where magic and inheritance were involved. He didn’t get very far before Professor Snape continued to speak. “You’re a minor, so your intent didn’t play any role in a matter of adoption. But Lord Slytherin didn’t want to claim his father’s family or his mother’s, for that matter. But he very much wanted to claim his connection to Salazar Slytherin.” Knowing what Harry did about the story of how Marvolo had been born and lived, he understood why he had preferred the Slytherin family over either Riddle or Gaunt, so he nodded. “I, on the other hand...” Snape was speaking in a lower voice now, no longer lecturing. “I have achieved a lot under the name of Snape. I got my Mastery with this name, I published under this name. That alone would be reason enough to keep it. Don’t you think?”

They didn’t continue the lesson after that, and Harry went back to his common room deep in thought. Professor Snape had answered some questions, but had also opened new ones. But there was no immediate need to get an answer to any of them. Why did his own intent not influence the name? Or had it actually influenced the process? After all, he still had the Potter name. Had magic something to do with it? And why would it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but I hope it explains how I see the names and how and why they change when magic is involved.
> 
> Thanks to Jordre and Jake for helping to improve my spelling!
> 
> First published on the 2nd November 2018


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